


push and pull

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, Light Angst, M/M, Songfic, Talbert dont know shit, david websters chest hair, sexual healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 10:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18519760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: “got hands like an ocean,push you out, pull you back in”And David Webster never could resist the ocean.OR: Webster snorted, a sardonic sound that echoed across the hotel room. “You don’t know the first thing about what I need.”





	push and pull

**Author's Note:**

> I love Webgott. They’re my second fav pairing in the fandom, but I struggle to write them in anything longer than a vignette-type piece. That being said, I’ve been kicking this idea around for a while and finally decided to develop it. Hope y’all enjoy. <3 
> 
>  
> 
> Issues - Julia Michaels 
> 
> Cause I got issues, but you got 'em too  
> So give 'em all to me and I'll give mine to you  
> Bask in the glory, of all our problems  
> 'Cause we got the kind of love it takes to solve 'em  
> Yeah, I got issues  
> And one of them is how bad I need you  
> //  
> You do shit on purpose  
> You get mad and you break things  
> Feel bad, try to fix things  
> But you're perfect, poorly wired circuit  
> Got hands like an ocean,  
> Push you out, pull you back in.

They met at a bar—a friend of a friend situation. Honestly, the whole affair happened rather quickly. 

Their tumultuous relationship started as nothing more than an exchange of sneers and nasty wit—the result of a clash of assertive, conflicting personalities. Webster was too pretty and privileged, Liebgott was too bitter and crass. They shared a tense round of drinks with some friends, then parted ways on less than happy terms, presumably never to see each other again.

Until, of course, they did.

As it turned out, Liebgott and Webster had quite a few buddies in common, having somehow run in similar social circles for the last year or so without ever crossing paths. Liebgott's roommate Talbert was in a band with Webster's friend Hoob—and just how the fuck somebody like David Webster became pals with a guy like Donald Hoobler, Joe would never know. A few weeks after their first run-in, Tab's and Hoob's band—the Parachutists—were playing at some dive bar in town. Both Liebgott and Webster attended the performance, and the two pretty much ignored one another for the entire evening, finding plenty of other folks to chat and drink with in the crowded basement of the music venue.

And so what if they kept sneaking glances of curiosity and annoyance at one another all night?

A few weeks passed before the two collided once more. This time, it was at someone's birthday dinner, during which the pair engaged in a lively verbal sparring match over who knows what—Malarkey thought Liebgott took a petty shot at Web's higher education, Skinny assumed it was over Webster's snide comment about Joe's cheap beer. Regardless, it was an argument that had their friends in tears from laughter while on-looking strangers cringed at the public spat. Just when the mutual yelling threatened to break the sound barrier, the two dramatically broke apart and stormed out of opposite exits.

—and then, suddenly, they were swapping sloppy handjobs behind the dumpster out back.

After that, it didn't take long for clandestine, angry sex to become a regular thing between the antagonistic duo. Blowjobs in bathrooms and the occasional alleyway soon escalated to quickies in the back of Lieb's car and longer, dirtier encounters at Web's loft. The longer the tryst carried on, the worse things became. Their biting words and well-placed digs turned nastier, more personal. It was all raw lust tinged with embarrassment and vulnerability because they had too much skin in the game now, what with the way that Webster moaned Joe's name as he came in the other man's hand and the sinful way that Liebgott bit Web's shoulder to keep from screaming out in pleasure.

The better the sex, the worse their arguments.

Their disagreements were so awful that the men began to actively avoid each other in public—because, frankly, their behavior was downright embarrassing. Regardless of who won the feud du jour, they both looked like toddlers throwing tantrums, and so they decided to simply prevent public fights, choosing, instead, to spit venomous words in the ears of their mutual friends.

But, of course, their friends could only take so much.

“I mean, c'mon, Tab. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? He wears fuckin' button-ups to clubs and shit. Is he serious?”

“I dunno, Joe,” Talbert shrugged, obviously only half-listening, eyes glued to the tv. “I think he looks kinda hot with the sleeves rolled up. And he's got all that chest hair. People dig that shit.”

Liebgott felt the sudden impulse to tell Talbert that he didn't know shit about Webster's chest hair, fuckyouverymuch, and the abrupt defensiveness startled Liebgott.

This was not happening. He _did not_ give a damn about David “I'm-too-good-for-you” Webster. To prove it, he laughed with Tab, chain-smoked three cigarettes, and promptly left their apartment. He made it across town to Webster's apartment in record time—hacks of cabbie and what not. Lieb figured that a good, angry, rough fuck would help soothe the part of his brain that was starting to feel possessive. He needed to remind himself that this thing with Webster was just sex, and nothing more. That not only was he indifferent to Webster and his life, but that he actually _couldn't stand_ the guy, even if the pretty boy did possess a perfect ass.

When Webster opened the door, he looked more disheveled than Liebgott had ever seen him. There were visible bags under his eyes and his curly hair was even more unruly and wilder than was typical for the pristine college boy. A pair of boxers—the red ones with the anchors on 'em that made Web's already pale skin seem positively luminescent—were riding low on his hips. Catching sight of Liebgott on his stoop, Webster cocked his hips to one side and tossed Joe a droll stare. “What are you doing here?”

Showing up unannounced wasn't really their thing. Normally, a text would preview any of their rendezvouses. Lieb parted his lips to respond, but see, Web's burly, hair-covered chest was bare, and Lieb's mind flashed back to his conversation with his roommate. Yeah, Tab didn't know _shit_ about that chest hair.

Leaning forward, Liebgott caught Webster by the hips and forced him back inside his loft. Lieb was going to prove that he didn't give a damn about Wed—even if it took him all night.

* * *

It was a random Tuesday night in August, and for no reason at all, Speirs and Lipton were hosting a hang out at their apartment near the Bay. Liebgott arrived late as usual, and he made a hasty loop of the apartment, survey who was in attendance and making the necessary greetings before he slunk off to find a beer and have a smoke. It wasn’t long before his roommate was suddenly right beside him, flinging an arm around his shoulders and kissing Liebgott on the cheek.

Talbert’s fingers loosely gripped a half-empty bottle of Corona. His movements were sluggish, his boyish cheeks flushed, his hooded eyes happy and light. He gave a wide grin and raised his beer in salute. “About fucking time you got here!”

"Yeah, yeah.” Liebgott ran a hand through his hair and took another drag on his cigarette. Savoring the smoke in his lungs, he gave a cursory glance around the room, looking for a certain curly-haired fella who had been noticeably absent from the apartment during Liebgott’s initial walk-through. When his survey turned up negative, he nudged Tab. “Where’s the pretty boy? What, Professor Webster's too good for us?”

Tab rolled his eyes and scoffed at his roommate, lips curling in distaste. “You're a real asshole, Joe.”

Liebgott shuffled a bit, thrown off by the other man’s sudden hostility. “What?”

“Web’s dad fucking died. He's back in New York.”

The unexpected and morbid news left a feeling of dread in the center of Liebgott’s chest, one that over the course of the evening would gradually expand to consume his entire being. He immediately texted Webster—he may not like the guy, but he wasn’t a complete dick; the man’s father died, for fuck’s sake—, but Liebgott never got a response.

He told himself to let it go, to enjoy the party, that Web was obviously fucking busy with other shit. But still—it didn’t sit right with him. Webster _always_ replied. It was the guy had a compulsion or something. So, before Lieb went home that night, he cornered Hoobler in the kitchen and interrogated Web’s friend. Apparently, Webster had turned down Hoob’s offer to accompany him to the funeral and had returned to New York alone.

“Jesus, it’s fucked up that he’s dealing with his shit alone,” Liebgott had muttered.

Hoobler had agreed. “Yeah, I know, but ya know how Web is about his family.”

And no, Lieb didn’t. Not really. Webster had let a few things slip now and again—Liebgott knew he had a little sister, knew that his father, like Web, had gone to Harvard—, but as a general rule of their not-relationship, Lieb and Web tended to keep personal talk off the table.

When Liebgott asked for the telephone number for the Webster household—“Ya know, to call and give my condolences and shit.”—, Hoobler had been more than a little suspicious, but the other man eventually conceded and gave Liebgott the number to Webster’s hotel. Because, apparently, Web’s family was so fucked up that the guy wasn’t even staying at his parents’ place for his father’s funeral.

Who the fuck knew?

That night as Liebgott laid in bed earnestly working his way through a pack of Marlboro’s, he tried his damnedest not to think about Webster. He took long, exaggerated drags on his smokes, held his breath impossibly long and tried to clear his head, but all he could picture were Webster’s too-blue eyes and the way they looked after sex, all open and relaxed. This failing process lasted nearly three hours before he caved and called the number for Webster’s hotel.

The nice lady at the front desk connected him to Web’s room immediately, only, like his earlier text message, there was no answer.

The sensation of dread didn’t leave Liebgott all night.  

* * *

_This was fucking stupid. This was so goddamn stupid._ He _was so goddamn stupid. Should’a never fucking left San Francisco_.

These were the thoughts that ran through Joseph Liebgott’s head as he sat slumped against the wall in the hallway outside David Webster’s hotel room in Manhattan. He’d been waiting for three and a half hours before the elevator dinged and Web, clad in a black bespoke suit, turned and began his ascent down the corridor. Liebgott spotted Webster first and took the opportunity to absorb the blotchy redness of Web’s skin, the exhaustion that haggard his eyes. When those eyes finally met his own, Webster stopped in his tracks, too-thick lips parted in silent surprise.

Wordlessly, Webster let Liebgott into his hotel room and disappeared into the bathroom.

Liebgott shut and latched the door behind him, then took a second to survey the fancy hotel room. There was a wide, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the busy street below, and a million fucking pillows littered the too-plush bed. All of Webster’s things, it seemed, were neatly contained in and around his suitcase that was propped against the wooden desk in the corner. The whole place was too clean, too perfect. So, naturally, Liebgott hated it.

When Webster emerged from the bathroom, he carried his suit jacket in his hand, which he then tossed onto the nearest surface before he began immediately undoing the buttons on his shirt. “I have to…” he began, distractedly. There were little droplets of water on the red skin of his face, and his collar was damp, like he’d splashed his face in the sink. “I have to get out of this,” he commented, toeing off his shoes as his fingers continued to furiously work the buttons of his pressed shirt. There was an absent look to Webster’s eyes—an absence which was somehow violent.

Liebgott hated it, too.

He crossed to the other man and placed his hands over Webster’s own. The touch startled the curly-haired man, who blinked at Liebgott as if noticing he was there for the first time. Liebgott gently nudged Webster’s hands out of the way and resumed their work of undoing the buttons. “I got it,” Liebgott told him, softly.

Liebgott had no idea what the hell he was doing. This was all so different from how he and Web normally were. But this—this suffering, this pain—Liebgott wasn’t a cruel guy. His not-relationship with Webster aside, Lieb didn’t wanna see anybody hurt like this, not up close.

The final button unhooked, Liebgott slid the shirt from Webster’s shoulders and tossed it over towards the discarded jacket. Webster began tugging his undershirt loose from his suit trousers, so Liebgott’s fingers found their way to Webster’s belt, which was thin and pristine and obviously made of some quality leather. It was the kind of accessory that Liebgott would have normally mocked—“Whoa, Web, how much did this cost ya? A fuckin’ month of my rent?”—, but in that moment, the only thing Liebgott could think was how much he just wished Webster was in his little red boxers with the anchors on them.

That Webster, Liebgott knew how to handle. But this one?

Webster allowed himself to be undressed. Allowed Liebgott to find a pair of grey sweatpants and a white tee shirt for him. Allowed Liebgott to guide him to the bed where Webster sat staring numbly at the window for half an hour before the uncomfortable silence was more than Liebgott could take and the cabbie jumped up, stomped over to the nightstand to grab the hotel brochure, and declared, “I’m gonna order some room service. Can I get you anything?”

Webster’s eyebrows furrowed at Lieb’s question, but he remained silent. Liebgott ordered him a beer and a burger, anyway, then joined the other man on the bed.

The pair of them had been in bed together on dozens of occasions, but it had never been like this. Every time before, it was all tongues and teeth and fingernails and hot breath and sweat and sex sex sex, angry and grinding and unrelenting and fucking _good._ Liebgott would rather get a tattoo of Malarkey’s face on his ass than admit it, but the best sex of his life was—hands down—this fucked up series of hate-sex he had going on with Webster. There was just something about that pretty boy face and those too-blue, shiny eyes and his pornstar mouth that could spout Shakespeare one second and in the next spit some of the dirtiest, foulest, kinkiest shit Liebgott had ever heard in his life. Plus, those hips…and that chest hair…

But _this_ Webster, this sad and mournful, broken little thing of a boy—Liebgott didn’t know how to handle it.

“Tell me—” Lieb began, and the strangled sound of his own voice was foreign to him. He wanted to reach for Web, to touch him, to ground himself in the moment and convince himself that this was all real. That this was really happening, him and Web and New York and a dead father. He cleared his throat and began again. “Tell me what to do, Web. Tell me.”

Webster blinked. Once, twice. Slow blinks. When he looked at Liebgott, his distance eyes came into focus, and Liebgott watched as realization finally, really, actually settled in the other man’s expression. Webster frowned, a frustrated twist of his lips that reached the eyes. “Why are you here, Joe?”

“Hoobler said you were alone. Thought…thought you could use the company.”

Webster snorted, a hollow, humorless sound. “There’s a reason I came alone.” His brow furrowed. “How did you get here?”

“Took a flight, how else?” There was no bite in Liebgott’s response and before Web could reply, a bellhop knocked on the door and delivered their food. Webster eyed the plates of French fries and cheeseburgers with disinterest. He told Liebgott, “I’m supposed to be having dinner with my mother and sister later.”

Liebgott, who sat down at the desk to eat his burger, wanted to ask—wanted to ask why Webster wasn’t with them now, why he wasn’t staying at his family’s home, why he wasn’t at the wake. But instead, Lieb shrugged and popped a fry into his mouth. “You can eat it later, then.”

Webster gave him a hard, pointed look. “Why are you here, Joe?” he repeated himself. Only, it was obvious that this time Webster intended to get a serious answer.

Lieb wasn’t stupid. Uncomfortable though the question might’ve made him, he’d thought through a dozen scenarios of this conversation on the plane. The cabbie licked his lips, tasting a little ketchup from the fries, and met Webster’s defiant stare.

“I’m here ‘cause I wanna be.”

A muscle in Web’s jaw twitched and the man’s nostrils flared. He pushed furthered. “ _Why_?”

“Because—” Liebgott floundered for a bit, then slumped in his chair with a humorless laugh. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Because after Tab told me about your old man last night—and then Hoob said you came all the fucking way here by your _goddamn self_ —I just—I dunno. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“I’m flattered,” Web retorted, flatly.

Liebgott shot him a glare. “I’m fucking serious, Web.”

“Please. The last thing I need is your pity, Joseph.”

“Its not pity! I mean, it is, I guess. I mean, _fuck._ Yeah, I feel bad for you, man, but…” Liebgott sighed, a touch resigned, a touch frustrated. He looked at Web with pleading eyes. “Look, man, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m not like you. I don’t do so good with words, but I’m tryin’ to tell you that I’m…I don’t know. I’m fucking here, okay?”

The hotel room was still for a moment as eyes blue like the ocean drank in the form of his distant lover. Just like that, the ire and indignation in Webster seemed to evaporate, replaced once again by a numb indifference. He blinked, then glanced away and let his eyes fall once again on the window. He spoke, quietly, monotonously, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Fuck that,” Lieb mumbled. “You need somebody, Web. You don’t need to go through this shit alone.”

Webster snorted, a harsh, sardonic sound that echoed evilly in the pristine hotel room. “You don’t know the first thing about what I need.”

“The hell I don’t,” Liebgott stood in a flash of stubborn passion. He knew Webster _so_ goddamn well. Maybe he didn’t know shit like the guy’s family situation or the names of his childhood best friends, but Liebgott _knew_ Webster. He knew the fire that smoldered beneath the glass-cut of Webster’s jawline. Knew the razor-sharp wit of Webster’s mind that was full of references to everything from Freud to Fortnite. Knew the way that Webster liked to be challenge, liked to be tested, the thrill that Webster got from vigorous debate, the high he got from a well-earned victory. Knew the soft sounds, the dirty sounds, the loud sounds that spilled forward from Webster’s plump mouth at all hours of the day. Knew that, despite his perfect exterior, Web was one hell of a mess, just like the rest of them, no matter what the wannabe-professor claimed.

“I know you, Web. I _know_ you.”

“You don’t know a thing, Joe.”

“ _Bullshit_.” Liebgott crossed to the bed, and his mouth was saying shit faster than his brain could keep up. It was as if, suddenly, Lieb realized all of these truths about his not-relationship with Webster. And fuck, weren’t they were so obvious, the pair of them? “Don’t push me away, Web.”

Beneath thick eyelashes, Webster’s eyes pierced Liebgott’s own. “I can’t push you away, Joseph. You never let yourself get close enough for me to put my hands on you.”

Lieb wanted to disagree, wanted to point to the numerous occasions and various ways in which Webster had, in fact, put his perfectly manicured hands all over Lieb’s body. But he didn’t. Because he knew that wasn’t what Web meant. And he also knew that Web was right. So, instead, Liebgott swallowed his pride—along with the anxious feeling in his stomach and the vulnerability that went with it—and cleared his throat. He held his arms at his sides, palms up in surrender, and said, “I’m here now, Web.”

He folded himself onto the bed across from Webster, and hating every second how exposed this whole affair made him feel, Liebgott begged, “Tell me what to do here, David. Tell me how to help you.” He reached for the other man as he spoke, let his hands trail across familiar calves and thighs until his fingers could curl around hands that knew his hips better than his own did. “Please, Web…”

With Liebgott’s fingers threaded through his own, Webster allowed his eyes to fall shut as he sunk into the plethora of pillows behind him. The warmth of Lieb’s touch centered him to the world, and all at once, the tears were coming. There, in an upper scale Manhattan hotel, Joseph Liebgott held David Webster as he sobbed for the death of his father, the death of any chance Web had of repairing his damaged relationship with the man that helped give him life. For two hours, Liebgott held Webster and let him cry without judgement or complaint, all the while running his fingers up and down Web’s arms, over his shoulders and back, through his dark, unruly curls. And hours later, when Webster left for dinner with his mother and sister, he asked if Liebgott would still there when he got back.

“I got nowhere else to be, Web. I’m right here.”

Webster left. Liebgott waited. 

* * *

Back home, back in Frisco, Liebgott made his way across town to Webster’s loft.

The curly-haired man answered the door wearing his boxers— _those_ boxers, the red ones with the white little anchors on ‘em—and Liebgott smirked. “I see you got my request.”

As he slid aside to let Lieb into the apartment, Webster drawled, “I aim to please.”

The words sent a fat grin spreading across Liebgott’s face. “S’at, right?” he snickered, reaching mindlessly, naturally, for Webster’s hips and pulling the other man in. Liebgott dropped a kiss onto Web’s bare shoulder, then another, before he drew back to peer at the pretty boy in his arms. “So, I was thinking I would stay at your place tonight since the guys’ gig is just around the block.” Liebgott took a step backwards, tugging Webster along with him, as he continued. “And then, ya know, next weekend, Tab’s girlfriend is in town, so I might need to crash here, then, too.”

“Mhmm.” Webster gave a noncommittal noise as they approached his bedroom, allowing himself to be dragged closer and closer to the bed. “For the record—” he said, teasingly. “I still think you’re a judgmental Neanderthal.”

Liebgott smirked and flopped down onto his lover’s bed. Already fishing himself out of his clothes, he shot back, “For the record, I still think you’re a pretentious little shit.” Lying back on Webster’s bed, Liebgott surveyed the blue-eye boy standing before him, all smooth planes and lean muscles and blue eyes and, my _god,_ that chest hair. “But you _are_ a pretty boy…” Liebgott’s lips pulled into a shark-like grin as he reached for Webster. “C’mere.”

"So bossy.” Webster rolled his eyes as he straddled Liebgott on the bed. Arms braced on the shorter man’s shoulders, Webster kissed Liebgott slow and warm and purposeful. He captured the other man’s bottom lip between his teeth, bit down hard enough to make Liebgott purr but not hard enough to leave a crescent mark on his flesh. Webster brought a hand to Lieb’s jaw. Stroking the bit of stubble on the cabbie’s chin, Webster murmured against Liebgott’s mouth. “Tell me, Lieb. Tell me what you want.”

Liebgott’s reply came instantly, unashamedly. “Want you,” he answered, his voice a bit of whimper, a bit of a sigh. “Want you, Web.” Liebgott nosed Webster’s jaw and peppered kisses across the man’s collarbone before he returned his mouth to the other man’s lips. Liebgott kissed him earnestly, a hot, open-mouthed affair. “Want you so bad, Web.”

For a pair whose foundation was built on fast and hard, angry and rough, Liebgott and Webster were quick to discover that things could be just as good—maybe even _better—_ when they took things slow and sweet, long and easy. Liebgott relished the slow build, fucking loved the way that Webster could tease and tantalize his body until the pleasure was agonizing and he craved, begged for, _needed_ release. Webster adored the endless adorations that poured forth from Liebgott as they worked into one another, the countless sweet-nothings that stunned Web in their sincerity and eloquence.

And just as quick handjobs in alleyways led to hate-sex in bar bathrooms, so the occasional tender-fuck led to gentler kisses, and the stray kiss or two led to a hand resting on a thigh or an arm around a shoulder, and pretty soon their friends’ remarks about “Liebgott’s and Webster’s fighting” became comments about “Liebgott’s and Webster’s public groping,” and years later, long after Liebgott and Webster had established an official relationship and moved into a new apartment together, Liebgott would turn to Talbert one evening and casually tell his former roommate that he didn’t know _shit_ about David Webster’s chest hair. Fuckyouverymuch. 


End file.
